


A Thin Line Between Hate and… Other Stuff

by TheFilthWithin (Flatfootmonster)



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bottom Isak Valtersen, Enemies to Lovers, Grumpy Isak, M/M, POV Isak Valtersen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 02:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17758064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flatfootmonster/pseuds/TheFilthWithin
Summary: Isak is studying while working at a coffee shop. His life is Ok... ish. Filled with lies, mocchiato's, and hook ups, fate storms in and lends a hand in the shape of Mr Spielberg, AKA film director Even.





	1. A Regular Asshole

**Author's Note:**

> So, this one time, there was a writing prompt, and my fic title was "Fate, Mocchiatos, and Other Lies I've Told" and I've been meaning to fic it for a while, just to get it out of my head! 
> 
> So, enjoy <3

I'm pouring the frothy milk into the cup, and there are eyes on my back—more than one pair. The pattern I make is a heart; this is what I do.

For whatever reason  _ those  _ eyes always trip me up. This is my normal persona, this is how I am. But when I try to say the same lines I usually do, my tongue makes false starts, and so I  _ always  _ fucking overdo it. 

I hate him. I really do. 

I adjust my grin before I turn, cup in hand, as I fasten the plastic lid on top.  _ Jen  _ is written on the side in my careless scrawl, which is more honest than my empty words. 

“One macchiato,” I announce, locking eyes with her. It’s not a  _ real  _ macchiato, any Italian would probably spit at me for pretending it was anything other than a frothy cappuccino. But, here in  Trondheim , as long as it has caffeine in it, no one cares. 

Her eyes are a warm amber, under blue eyelashes. Why do girls wear coloured mascara? It never does not look terrible, like the lashes are actually drawn on with crayon. But I suppose she's pretty— _ maybe _ . Not my type in any case. “Be careful, it's hot,” I state, placing it on the counter that she's on the other side of. I can feel  _ him  _ grinning and my skin begins to prickle in irritation. “But, uh—” She was about to turn away, now she's stalling. “You must be used to it, being hot yourself.” I wink as her lip quirks into a lopsided smile, and my gut tightens in shame. I just can't fucking help myself. 

I blame him en-fucking-tirely. 

“Thanks,” she says, before hesitating. “If it's good, I'll come back for another,” she adds. 

I raise an eyebrow in a way that I hope she'll take as an invitation. “Well, it  _ will _ be the best goddamn macchiato you've ever tasted. Trust me.” Maybe she'll get shy and decide to leave it at that. Sometimes they do, and then I can stop lying through my asshole teeth. 

She opens her mouth to reply, but whatever she was gonna say is null and void as the guy next in line clears his throat. I  _ really  _ hate him, and that feeling is only heightened as relief bleeds into me because he cut this deceitful interaction short. 

Fucking asshole. 

I roll my eyes.  _ “What?”  _ I mutter, only mostly harassed. 

He snickers. Of course he fucking snickers. “I just really want a drink.” I hate his voice too. It's deep and it sends vibrations through me, as if him towering over every other fucker in the immediate vicinity isn't enough. “You guys still sell coffee, right? Or is this now a bad pick up line store?” 

I'm frowning down at my hands as I wipe them on my apron. I always have issues meeting his eyes because he intimidates me. But I'll be fucked if I let him know that. Pretentious prick. 

I look up in time to see the scowl that  _ Jen  _ had aimed at the rude ass customer behind her melt into consideration as she takes him in. Fucking perfect. But he completely ignores her, like it's his duty in life to be one hundred percent focussed on getting under my skin.

“What do you want?” I huff. I would switch with Emma if I saw him coming, duck into the back room just to escape the confrontations that inevitably come with  _ his  _ presence. Because they stay with me all fucking day. But Emma went out for milk, so it's just me. That’s been happening more lately— her doing something  _ important  _ while he’s here. 

My eyes dart to his— they're the blue I think she was aiming for with her mascara, but seemed off by a few shades—before my back turns, and I'm chucking the metal jug with the remnants of froth into the sink with a little too much enthusiasm. Milk sprays up the tiles and I consider the extra mess I just made with a scowl.

Fuck this guy. 

“I just want my usual. And maybe a tacky pick up line.” He laughs the words, but he can't see the way my face is screwed up and I'm mimicking him into the sink. What a dick. 

“Funny,” I say, voice dead. 

“That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me.” 

I grunt sardonically. “Don't get used to it.” They’d only started filming here a few weeks back, but it already felt like an eternity with this guy’s daily visits to grab a latte—and fuck me off in the process. But  _ ever  _ seems a bit of a stretch. I’m polite mostly… well—OK—I’m  _ civil _ . 

I pick up a cloth and spray down the tiles and the work top with cleaner before thoroughly drawing the cloth over the mess I made. He can wait. 

Why do I want him to stay any longer than he needs to? 

I fling the damp rag down near the taps. “One latte,” I grunt. Picking up the handle of the portafilter, I bang it against the tray, the used coffee spilling out. I seem to be doing everything with more force than necessary. But if I can’t turn around and slap the grin off  _ Mr Director’s _ face, then the equipment will have to take the brunt of my frustration.

The sound of Jen’s footsteps tell me she’s walking away.  _ Good _ . 

“Is it gonna be the best latte  _ I've _ ever tasted?” he says. 

My teeth grit together and I shrug. “I don't care.” 

Whatever he just said was lost as I turn on the grinder, filling the filter with ground coffee before packing it down. His grin is still there, I just know it, and it sets an itch between my shoulder blades. So, I pick up a takeaway cup, scrawling something on the side that makes  _ me  _ grin. Then I put it under the nozzle and switch on the water. 

Now the milk.

“I’m not sure why I keep coming back here.” 

I frown over my shoulder, pouring the milk into a clean metal jug. He looks bored and amused at the same time, staring at the specials board, before he throws his gaze right back at me again. Now I have milk on my wrist. 

It only takes me a second to grab a paper towel and clean the spill, because  _ apparently  _ when he looks at me it’s like being slapped. I’m hoping he didn’t see my reaction, but I know that he did. That’s what the small, almost indistinguishable, huff was about. He’s laughing at me.

Prick. 

“I don’t know either,” I reply. It’s hard to keep the hostility from my voice—really I’m not trying to by this point. But it’s not like he’s gotten the hint yet.

“It can’t be the service.” 

I grunt, it’s like he read my mind. But he’s not wrong, that’s for damn sure. 

“Maybe it’s the view,” he adds— _ no _ , he just drops it like it’s nothing, with no thought, whatsoever. Like he’s dusting some fluff from his overpriced, dark blue coat, that just has to be tailored to fit snuggly. I don’t know why that irritates me so much. 

I’m scowling at him now, and I’m not surprised to find him staring, that feigned boredom draped over his entire body, at the specials board again. I know he’s not goddamn bored.  _ View? _ He just likes watching me squirm for whatever fucked up reason.

“ _ What _ ?” I ask. He can’t just get away with acting so nonchalant over being such a dick. What is his problem?

I finish pouring the frothy milk into his cup and turn, striding the short distance between the back counter and the service desk. He shrugs, eyes on the cup in my hand.  _ He fucking shrugs.  _

“You know.” One large hand gestures vaguely over his shoulder, to the shop front, which is simply two large windows separated by a door. It looks out onto the high street, right now that consists of an off white blanket covering everything. There’s been more snow than normal, and it’s slowing down the filming—so I hear. Not that I care. “The view… people watching,” he elaborates, a smirk tugging at his impractical full lips. 

I know my mouth is open, but I can’t seem to close it. Is he completely nuts? Does he think I’m dumb? “Firstly,” I begin, finding my tongue. “You never stay in here to drink and  _ people watch.”  _ I put the cup down on the countertop that separates us with a plop, my eyes fasten on to the button, second from the top on his coat. That seems like a safe place to stare. “Secondly, this is the quietest street in town. So,” I finish off folding my arms across my chest. He can’t fool me. “that’s bullshit.”

He hums and I want to slap him because— _ I swear _ —even the floor is vibrating. Son of a—

“You’re right.” And there’s another one of those carefree, I dont give a fuck, shrugs. “I wonder  _ why  _ I keep coming back here?” he trails off, amusement in his voice at the statement. Because we both know why the fuck he comes back, he just likes to torture me. Sadistic fuck.  

“I don’t actually care,” I sigh. I really don’t. I just wish he’d find some other coffee shop worker to irritate and look down at—figuratively and literally. 

And now he has the audacity to sigh. What the fuck does he have to sigh about? “I can see that, still not sure…” His words fall away as his hand reaches for the cup, focussing on it for the first time—or, more specifically, what I wrote on it. Then he grunts a laugh. “ _ Mr Spielberg?  _ And you spelt it right and everything. Wow.” He is now thoroughly entertained and I’m pretty sure that wasn’t my god damn intent. 

“Of course I spelt it right. I don’t just work here, you know. I’m at uni, using my brain, studying  _ physics _ ,” I snap, words tumbling one after the other, irrationally defensive to his words. I’m brave enough to look him in the eye, expecting to find some entertained expression there from the reaction he managed to poke from me. But all he does is tilt his head to one side and his face softens. And, for whatever reason, that makes me even more angry.  _ “What?”  _ I demand. I’m frustrated now, and there are more emotions than that going on, I just can’t pin them down. I’m extremely grateful that, after Jen’s departure, the coffee shop is empty of customers—well, except  _ him _ —because my voice is raising a little too high to be considered  _ normal  _ conversation. 

He holds up a hand in defence. “Physics? Wow. I learned something about the formidable Isak today.”  

And there he goes again: taking the piss. “Like you give a shit.”

He pulls an offended expression, and I use every ounce of determination not to look away. “How do you know that I don’t?” he asks. His expression couldn’t handle one more ounce of mirth without him exploding into laughter, I’m sure of it. Why is everything a joke to him?

_ And why does that fuck me off so much?  _

My mouth is open because I don’t know what to say. Of course he doesn’t give a shit about me. Some stupidly fancy director, exploding into this shitty town to disrupt everything for a month or so, only to disappear just as fast? Why would he give a shit about me? 

My fumbling is cut short when he raises an eyebrow. That small movement smothers any of my remaining courage and I break my eyes away, looking over his shoulder and out of the window. The cup is moving towards his mouth and he takes a sip. 

“If you’re done—” I begin; I see no other option than to make him aware that this conversation is done and he can leave me in peace. But I don’t get to finish because he cuts me off with an absurdly mocking hum in response to the latte.  

Evidently he is  _ not  _ done. 

“Perfect,” he states. He’s staring at my face but I refuse to look at him. “Maybe it  _ is _ the best latte I’ve ever had.”

I snort. “Unintentional.”

“So, you made it to perfection unintentionally? You’re accomplished, maybe it’s the whole physics thing.” 

My eyes press tightly together and I will myself anywhere else in the universe but this spot, or for him to get over whatever kick he gets from this and fuck off, never to return. Why won’t he just leave me alone? “God, I hate you.”

I freeze, my blood runs cold beneath my instantly clammy skin. I was supposed to just think it, but my mouth had an entirely separate notion altogether. Now my heart is beating in my ears and I can’t look. Why did I admit that?

The moment is cut through abruptly by a surprised laugh that I almost feel lurching out of him. My eyes snap open and he has an incredulous expression on his face as the irritating, musical, deep laughter pours from him. 

“You hate me?” he exclaims, his amusement not diminished in the slightest as he looks over his shoulder at the empty room and points to himself. “Isak? You hate me? Jesus Christ, what did I ever do to you? Did I shoot your puppy in a past life?” 

I don’t hold back from rolling my eyes, trying to ignore the fact my face is now warm enough to fry an egg on. “You know what you do: winding me up, patronising me, laughing at me.” I spit the words in his general direction while trying to look bored. There’s a spot of water on the counter top so I turn to grab the rag and wipe it away, dusting some loose sugar granules into the palm of my hand, too, before washing it off under water from the tap.

When I’m done, I realise it’s quiet and he’s still standing in the same spot. My eyes dart back to find him contemplative, eyes low and looking almost sombre. That’s new. 

“That’s what you think?” 

I frown at him. Of course that’s what I think because it’s a fact. “That’s what you do,” I mumble. 

From the very first day that he came in, it was apparent; standing like a damn peacock in the room, eyes flicking down to my nametag and eyebrowing me like I’m something there entirely for his amusement. Then he had the audacity to use my name without me giving it to him. Sure it was on display, but no one with any sort of manners does that—it’s weird and fucking presumptuous. He never even gave me  _ his  _ name, not that I give a shit. I do know his name now, because I’ve overheard him talking to Emma— _ unintentionally _ . But I took my name tag off then and there and haven’t worn it since. I realise today is the first time he’s actually used my name since then, so he obviously picked up on the hint. 

He sighs again. There’s no mirth there at all, and now I’m confused. His hand pushes into his pocket and he pulls out a note, putting it on the counter. “I guess perspective is everything,” he says quietly. Then he turns away, and I watch as he strides out of the shop.

My mouth is open and I have nothing to say. What the hell did that mean? Perspective is everything? I feel…  _ uncomfortable _ , like I want to argue further, but the door bangs shut before I’ve managed to prepare any comeback. And this is the first time I feel uneasy with the situation. 

What was his perspective then? 

I’m still gawking at the door, minutes passing by like the flurries of snow, when I’m jolted out of my thoughts by a hand banging on the window. I flinch before figuring out who it is. A small form, bundled in coats and scarves, is leaning against the glass, one hand holding a bag bulging with milk cartons. Emma gestures to the door so I make a quick path there, as she limps towards the entrance. 

* * *

“So, the cat ran out of nowhere and it scared the shit out of me,” she finishes off, wincing as I lift her leg to rest on a stool. I made her comfortable in an armchair near the heater, but her ankle is already swelling. “Then I was on my ass.”

“You should be more careful.”

“There’s so much ice under the snow, and you can’t see it.” 

I shake my head. “I don’t get why you're afraid of cats. Of all the things to be scared of…” I’m tutting at her while wrapping a cloth around the sprained joint to hold a warm compress in place. 

She scoffs at that. “They scratch and hiss. They’re assholes.” 

I know all about assholes. Cats are definitely nothing compared to  _ Mr Spielberg _ . “It would have been better if you’d let me go get the milk,” I mutter. For more than one reason. 

She doesn’t respond and so I look up to find her studying me. “I saw  _ him  _ leaving, and  _ you  _ look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?” 

I sigh, leaning back. It’s almost time to close and my legs hurt. “He was just being him; same old dick.” She crosses her arms and waits for me to elaborate. “Winding me up,” I add, but I shouldn’t need to, she knows what he’s like. Although she only seems to tolerate my rantings about him, I don’t think he fucks her off in the same way he does me. “I… may have said I hate him,” I admit with a shrug. I don’t know why I feel sheepish about it still.

“ _ You did what? _ ” she asks incredulously. 

“What? I just said that I hate him, I didn’t  _ mean  _ to say it out loud, but it’s the least he deserves.” I almost mean it. 

She’s staring at me now and it looks like she’s exasperated, and I’m thrown off by that. She knows I’m usually friendly with people, even if I don’t want to be. She knows about all the lies I tell girls, and never follow through on. In fact, I even tried to win her over with sweet talk at one point, words that were empty and never amounted to anything. Luckily she never held that against me—just let it go. So, she knows I put on a show, winning over customers who I have no interest in and she’s never judged me in anyway about it. But now she looks in pain, biting her tongue over words that want to spill out, because I was an ass to one person.

Grunting in defeat, her head rests against the tall chair back and she closes her eyes. “Isak. You’re an idiot.” She makes it sound like the tip of the iceberg. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” she says.

Never mind?  _ Idiot _ ? What does she mean? But, before I can open my mouth to probe further, the door bangs open, sending an icy blast into the room. 

Speak of the goddamn devil. I thought I'd just gotten rid of him… 

“Emma,” he says, completely ignoring me and steam rolling into his next words before she can greet him back. “We're shooting a scene but we need an extra, and the ones we hired have gone home for the day—” His words come to an abrupt halt as he takes her in: bare foot on the stool and my hands holding the compress in place. “What did you do?” 

She shakes her head dismissively as I start to bristle at being overlooked so obviously. Sure, I don't want him anywhere near me, because he can't help but be a dick, but this is just as rude. 

“It's nothing I just slipped—”

“Frightened by a cat,” I correct, adding my voice to the scenario. Because I am here, after all. All he does is frown at me before focussing on her again. 

“Are you OK?” 

“Sure, I have  _ Dr Valtersen _ on hand,” she says with a lazy gesture of her hand and a smug smile. Does  _ she  _ like him? Maybe that was why she was weird about me being rude to him. Why don't I like that she might like him? Fuck, everyone probably  _ likes  _ him, and he probably knows it too. 

He just nods, not teasing at the title of Dr or any thing. Why am I disappointed? No, I'm not disappointed, I've just been conditioned. This is relief. Probably. 

“Well, take it easy, was worth a try.” His hand is on the handle as he turns his back on us, and I feel offense that I wasn’t extended the same goddamn opportunity. What's wrong with me? 

“Is it a female extra you need?” I call at his back, not really thinking the situation through. 

He freezes before shooting a bemused expression over his shoulder. “No. Just any able bodied person who has a voice.” 

“Am I not able bodied?” I retort hotly. 

Light bemusement turns to flat out astonishment. “Wait, you  _ want _ to help me?” 

“ _ No,”  _ I grunt. I don't, but it's the principle. “I just don't understand why you would ask  _ her  _ and not  _ me _ .” I shift back in my seat, feeling secure in my assertions, and cross my arms. It's not until I realise the puzzled gaze directed at me is twinned by one of pure amusement. And this time it's not coming from him but Emma. “ _ What _ ?” I ask her hotly. 

She snorts a laugh before shaking her head. “Nothing, nothing,” she assures, smoothing her features. Before I can question the small knowing smile on her face, he butts in. 

“I assumed you wouldn't want to help, that's why I didn't bother to ask. So, if you don't want to help, what was the point of asking?” He stares me down and whatever high ground I thought I had drops from under my feet.

“No, it's just gender equality—” 

“Bullshit, Isak. Stop being a dick and help.” I turn to gape at Emma now. Why is she on his side? 

“No, it's OK,” he directs at Emma, completely dismissing me with one of those oversized hands. Too big to be useful for anything… I bet he's clumsy as fuck. “I wouldn't expect Isak to be  _ helpful _ —” 

“I'll fucking help,” I assert, standing as if we're gonna face off. He blinks and then I notice the corner of his mouth twitch. He's fighting his own grin. Great, this is fucking entertaining him. Why did I open my goddamn mouth? 

Shaking my head, I go to grab my coat and beanie, because it's stupidly cold out there. Now I'm back to questioning what the fuck came over me to volunteer. But he can't just go around assuming things about me,  _ I'm _ not the dick here. 

“I'll just be up the road, you'll see us,” he says, still wrestling with his amusement. He tugs the coat tighter around himself, and I blink away. Always trying to bring attention to himself… Then he's out the door, and I guess I'm following after him. Great. Fucking amazing. 

As I reach the door, and my palm falls onto the cool handle, Emma clears her throat. 

“Can you just flip over the  _ closed _ sign?” I nod, it's the least I can do considering she's bust her ankle.

“I can stay, what if you need something—” It’s genuine concern, she shouldn't be on her feet. And it's absolutely nothing to do with a convenient excuse out of this corner I painted myself into. But I stop when she shakes her head. 

“I'm fine, it's already feeling better.” 

“If you're sure—”

“I'm sure,” she says over me. I nod again. I guess I'm doing whatever the fuck this is. I really should have asked for details. 

I pull at the handle just as Emma makes an  _ oh _ sound, like she forgot something. “Isak, you know there's a thin line between hate and… other stuff,” she states like it makes sense. She's still wearing a smile. 

Other stuff? What is her deal? But there's no point in delaying, I need to get this over with. So I just dismiss her words with a shake of my head, try to ignore whatever it is she clearly finds entertaining, and embrace the freezing cold. 

* * *

So, that's how I find myself shivering with my hands thrust in my pockets, listening to someone yell cut for the millionth time. It stopped snowing at least, but that's the best I can say about this cluster fuck. 

Everyone is slipping and sliding about, trying to wrap a scene where two characters are in the middle of a heated exchange. Despite the ridiculous conditions, everyone seems determined to complete the take. Which is stoic of them really. Or stupid. The jury is out. 

I say everyone is slipping about like ducks on ice, but  _ Mr Spielberg _ is swanning around. It kinda reminds me of that one scene in Lord of The Rings where everyone is struggling through the snow and that Elf fucker just ballet dances across the surface. 

He was a prick too. 

So I was wrong about the clumsy part,  _ apparently _ , but not about every last motherfucker liking him. Everyone beams at him. It's insufferable. 

But I'm waiting here, my feet slowly turning to ice blocks in my shoes, and all I have to do is walk over to the couple and ask them directions to the train station, which sparks a new argument between them over directions. And then I wander off looking bemused and lost. 

I think I can nail bemused and lost in my sleep. And I'm sure I can say:  _ hey, you know where the station is? _ So, this should be over with quickly… if we could just get to that point. 

“You OK?” 

I jump and almost lose my footing, so I send him an accusatory glare. Why does he need to creep around like that? “Of course I am— _ well _ , I would be if people didn't creep up on me.” 

He pulls a face that can only be mocking concern. “Did I scare you?”  

I snort, a puff of white air is expelled from my nostrils. Scared? “ _ Scared _ ? Of you?”

“It’s a strange concept, but there’s a first time for everything.” He laughs the words and I frown at the two actors trying to pull off their argument convincingly. It’s not rocket science to be disagreeable. 

He doesn’t move away, and now that we’re out of the coffee shop, his scent is stronger and I can distinguish it better. It’s not overbearing, as I probably expected; drenched in some stupidly overpriced and pretentious aftershave. No, he just smells clean—that, and there’s a subtle hint of the latte he just finished.  _ My  _ latte. 

I bet the taste is still in his mouth. 

_ The fuck? _

I blink at the randomness of that intrusive thought before scowling at the two actors. “The fuck is taking them so long.” 

He grunts a sound that could have been agreement, and I start to shift on my feet: from the left to the right, and then back again. “It’s the process. Sometimes you just can’t find the groove,” he says. 

“ _ The groove _ ,” I repeat, mimicking him but a few tones higher. 

He laughs again and my frown deepens. Why does it irritate me when he is taking the piss, but when  _ I _ try it, he just laughs at me? Well, I’m not irritated right now, he hasn’t said anything snarky since earlier in the shop. OK, I  _ am  _ irritated, but not at the jibes. What am I irritated by? Probably just his general proximity. He is a dick after all. Am I perhaps being irrational? The thought only makes me clench my jaw tighter together. Of course I’m not. I’m always logical…

“I think we might have to wrap today after all, we’re losing light and everyone is tired,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. 

“So, I’ve been standing here for nothing?” I round on him, but I realise that was a mistake. My ire falters because his eyes are very blue, and very big, and they are fastened onto me. He does that eyebrow thing that makes me want to slink into the shadows and hide, and I can’t work out why. 

Trying to find reasons to stay angry is a new thing for me. 

“We’ll try,” he says simply. 

Then he’s striding away, towards the actors. And I’m glad that he did because he just makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable, like he’s weighing me up all the time and I have no idea what’s on the other side of the measuring scales. It definitely doesn’t feel colder now that he’s gone. That’s just a mind trick, the wind must have picked up. 

I watch as he talks to them, one at a time, engaging with them. And I notice how it seems to renew something in them, they stand taller, confidence is reforged some-fucking-how. I must be the only person on earth who doesn’t like him. I said I hated him, didn’t I? 

Seems a bit strong… 

Someone calls action, and the scene begins again.  _ Mr Spielberg _ is standing back now, watching a camera and the dialogue unfolds. He’s nodding his head, but even I can tell  _ this  _ is a good take, better than the others. And it doesn’t take long before I see the cue. I was aware of it, I knew it would come, but it still sets off a wave of nerves flooding through me, that I had  _ not  _ anticipated, when I see him nod in my direction and wave. I’m  _ never  _ nervous.

Fuck. Why did I do this?

I can’t fuck up, it’s a good take and he’s watching me now. I have no idea what that means, but the pressure to do this right is now immense, yet at the same time I want it to look like it was absolutely nothing at all. 

I lurch into movement, it’s only walking after all. I walk every fucking day, how hard can it be? And it’s just snow. I walk on snow all the time, I was doing it today in fact. No big deal. 

Focussing on my target—the couple who are now gesticulating wildly at each other—I replay my line over and over like it’s Shakespearean quality prose and its meaning is completely dependant on the slight nuances in my intonation. 

_ It’s just a goddamn question.  _

I’m near them now so I open my mouth, the words on the tip of my tongue. I can do this… 

“ _ He— _ ” I manage literally two letters of one word—not even a complete fucking word—when I see something spring from a wall in the corner of my eye. It’s too late to tell myself it’s only a bird because my body has already gone into overreaction mode. I flinch like someone is about to hit me, my arms going up, and with the weight shift my heel hits some ice. My feet are no longer where they should be to take my weight… aaand now I’m fuckin falling. 

It seems to take an absurd amount of time until my back slams against the ground, and I can’t even groan as I stare at the white-grey sky because everything was knocked out of my lungs by the force. There's a still moment before pain flares through me, and then I find the ability to groan. 

Walking and talking; two things I have managed to spectacularly fuck up. And not just fuck up, but do so in front of him and on camera. I am an idiot, Emma was right. Is there anyway that I can die right here and now? Any pact I can make with the devil for the ground to swallow me up and spit me out anywhere else in the world? Or universe for that matter. I don’t care, as long as I’m a million miles away from here. 

I close my eyes and it’s dark. I can hear people talking as the wet of the snow begins to seep into me. Funnily enough, that freezing sensation doesn’t rival my mortification, and so here I stay.

Footsteps approach and I’m hoping that everyone continues to ignore me and just go home. Pretend this never happened, act like I don’t exist. I have a feeling that’s not about to happen. 

“Isak? Are you OK?”

Great. It’s  _ him _ . I open my mouth to tell him to go away but the only thing that comes out is a long groan. Of course I’m not fucking OK? 

I hear him kneel, this is definitely going to make things worse. I’ll open my eyes and he’ll be wearing that big amused grin of his. He can’t fucking help himself. 

_ Dick. _

“C’mon;  _ up _ ,” he says firmly. 

I frown. My eyes open without me telling them to, and his face is over mine. He’s peering down at me in concern.

Wrong again, Isak. 

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“No, you’re not,” he states. “In the least, you’re soaked. You’ll be an icicle if you don’t move soon.”

I huff. Maybe I even pout. Who knows? I have no control over myself right now. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” I grumble. 

Now he grunts a laugh, but it’s not the one that I see in my mind. It's just a dismissive snort, that says perhaps he just finds me funny. Maybe he’s not laughing at me. He’s shaking his head, too. “I like cold Isak, but icicle Isak sounds a bit too much. You’ll be like Elsa, freezing everything.” He shrugs. “I like my lattes hot.”

I grunt. Before I even realise what I’m doing, or can stop it, I’m laughing. But it cuts off quickly because of two things: the motion makes a jolt of pain shoot from the bits of me that felt the impact of the pavement first, and what he said just percolates through my foggy brain.

_ He likes me? _

But, like I said, I have little control over myself right now. And that extends itself to my mouth. “ _ I’m not cold, _ ” I say in offense, and not the feigned kind.

He rolls his eyes. “ _ Sure _ . You’re a beacon of warmth. Polite and friendly and welcoming. If I say that, will you just get up?” His hand is held out. 

I mean, he has a point. 

This was definitely not the direction I saw my life taking this morning, so—with everything else combined—fuck it. I take his hand. 

I take his hand and it encompasses mine, fingers sliding around to grip onto me. I resent the fact he is wearing gloves, because I’m not and that just feels unfair. It’s warm and firm, and he doesn’t have to work hard to get me upright, there was no rough tugging, all I can say is the motion was a persuasion. And now I’m sitting up trying to ignore the fact his face is closer to mine than it ever has been before.

Not that I fucking care. 

“My ass is wet.” 

And there we go again with having no control over myself. What sort of admission is that? Why am I telling  _ him  _ about my ass? Christ.

“My hotel is over there,” he gestures across the square. It’s not the most obnoxious hotel in town—it’s pretty low key actually. “Have a shower, get warm, borrow some clothes. OK?” 

“No, I can’t do that—”

“What you  _ can’t _ do is walk around in this weather while you’re soaked. You’re wearing jeans, you’ll get hypothermia.” 

My mouth is open because I’m looking for a reasonable excuse to counter his points. But he’s right. It’s a twenty minute walk home, and that’s in good weather. Emma lives above the coffee shop but I’m not about to wear  _ her  _ clothes. Besides, I think it would be weirder taking a shower in her small flat than it would be showering in a hotel room, that  _ he  _ just so happens to be paying for right now. It’s basically communal showers… 

“OK,” I say. My mouth feels numb and there are those nerves. 

There’s a pause and I can’t read his expression for once. “OK?” he repeats.

He thought I would put up more of a fight. Why didn’t I? It’s not like I’m going to die of wet jeans. Maybe catch a cold… which  _ this  _ easily avoids. But he thinks I would rather have a cold than suffer his company? Does he think I’m a stubborn ass? He might be terrible company— _ mostly _ —but I am most definitely  _ not  _ stubborn.

“Well, yes. It makes sense. Why wouldn’t I? I can put up with you for ten minutes, and you’ll no doubt be in the shop tomorrow to make my life hell, so I can give you your clothes then.” And I realise my tone is hot. I’m defensive. For whatever reason I jut my chin in the air life we’re arguing. Which we are not, but try telling my body or mouth that. “And I’m  _ not  _ washing them, you can get them dry cleaned because this really is your fault. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

His expression softens into something more readable, like this was more the reaction he was expecting—expecting and enjoying, yet still it doesn’t feel like he’s laughing at me anymore. He smiles before shaking his head. “That’s more like it,” he mutters. “C’mon, Elsa.” 


	2. Even Stevens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know right? Two chapters in one go? Go me.... 
> 
> Enjoy. 
> 
> Love, Becs

I’m standing under streams of perfectly hot water, in this cream tiled and clean bathroom, still trying to think of a comeback. Or a rebuff. But my brain is failing me, which is unusual. 

_ Elsa? For fuck’s sake…   _

I couldn't find any decent rebuttal but I sure as hell said some dickish things. Which is supposed to be his territory. Like when he explained that he had a suite with adjoining rooms because his mum comes to visit him on set sometimes, so he likes to make sure she's close. And I called him a mummy’s boy. Or when he asked if I needed to borrow any hair products and I'd said something about not being vain, therefore accusing him of that very thing, and not subtly either. 

Both times he simply shrugged and let it go. And now I'm completely second guessing my judgment of him. I can't have got him that wrong, I dislike him for a very good fucking reason—I'm  _ not  _ irrational. 

But now I'm not entirely sure that I don't like him because all I've seen is him being  _ nice _ . Now I'm trying to actively remember the shit he'd said to me in the shop simply so that I can rekindle my anger, but for the life of me I can't think of a thing. Everything I grasp hold of just doesn't seem that bad anymore. 

But he is a dick. I'm sure he is. He must be… 

I'm still grumbling over the conundrum when I shut off the water, grab a towel and the pile of clothes—both the borrowed and my damp things—and stumble into the spare suite, making sure I choose the correct door; the bathroom is adjoining both suites. 

I chuck the spare clothes onto the bed, frowning at them like they did me wrong. The towel is thick and soft, probably expensive but not showy—which extends itself to the hotel too. Everything seems well made and of good quality, but quiet in its appearance. The beds are large, linens crisp with comforters thrown on the top. The ceiling is high and every surface is smooth and clean. It's minimal and cosy at the same time, that's a feat I suppose. 

It’s just my hair that's damp now, so I forage through the clothes, setting the sweat pants and t-shirt to one side and folding the hoodie for the meantime. It's not like I'll be rushing to leave anytime soon, it's snowing again and it's so heavy now; there's more white than black outside the window. It's dark, cold, and miserable outside and it's warm in here, I can probably overlook the company for a bit longer. At least until it stops blowing a blizzard. 

I left the socks in the bathroom. I  _ need  _ those because my feet only just regained feeling and I want to keep it that way. My boxers are hanging on the radiator drying, so I grab the towel and wrap it around my waist before turning to retrace my steps. I always lose fucking socks. 

I yank the door open and I'm a few paces into the room before I realise that the bathroom is not empty at all. 

Him. He is here. His back is to me and his t-shirt is being yanked over his head. But instead of turning around and apologising, my feet are ice blocks again and I'm glued to the spot. My mouth is open but nothing is coming out except a low and embarrassing noise that I think was intended to be a sorry. 

No goddamn control. 

It was a few seconds, maybe even one, but it all dragged into an eternity because my eyes are eating up every inch of skin I can see. His back is long and fucking graceful, his muscles flex as he pulls the garment off. His arms are more defined than I thought, and his hair is pretty much like from a commercial, you know, where people are pretending they’re orgasming while flipping their hair around and running their fingers through it. And his neck is stupidly long…  

…Fuck. He's hot. But I think I knew that already… 

…He's hot, half naked, and I'm wearing a towel… 

I swallow. It's about the only reaction I have control of right now but it sounds absurdly loud, and I grip the towel just beneath my navel, bunching the material, because if he realizes that I'm half hard I may as well die right here and now. 

_ Fuck _ . 

That’s when I see the small white buds in his ears: air pods. He doesn't know I'm here. I revel in the half dose of relief that gives me, and take a small step backwards hoping I can get out of here with my pride intact. 

But the relief was premature and short lived. His eyes flicker to me in the mirror and he immediately tugs one ear piece out, before turning to me. I see my own reflection briefly and it's not pretty; I look like a tomato. A gormless tomato, which is saying something really considering tomato’s don’t have brains.

“Isak, sorry, I thought you were done,” he says. 

I have to swallow again because my mouth is dry. I'm trying not to look but his body is right there and it's nice. It's a nice body. I'm fucked. 

“Socks,” I squeak. I actually squeaked. 

By this point he has so much fodder to be able to throw some heavy handed jibes my way, and I'm bracing myself for them. I'm hoping it comes because, right now, I need a reason to feel something remotely related to dislike for him. Is this why he's irritated me so much? Because he's hot? 

Wow. Apparently I'm really fucken petty.

But I'm still holding out hope that he'll belittle me in some way because I can't be this unaware of the blatantly obvious. I'm flustered, covering my dick and obviously gawking, all while talking in a way that makes it sound like my balls haven't dropped yet. He could at least smirk at me. I know I goddamn would. 

Instead, his eyes dart around the floor and then, gracefully as you fucking like, swoops down to grab the paired socks that had tumbled under the sink. 

“Here,” he says. 

Here. That's it. Fucking  _ here.  _

Now anger does snap in me, but not at him, at myself for misjudging this so spectacularly.

“Why are you being so fucking nice?” I demand. This is going extremely well, and the part of me that didn't just commit to misdirected outrage is cringing in the next room. 

He frowns and, oh god, the crease in his eyebrows when he does that. See this— _ this _ is why I can't look at this asshole. Except he's not an asshole. I think I'm taking that honour. 

“What?” 

“ _ You _ . Where's your snarky remarks and shit. You've been acting all nice.  _ Why?”  _ They weren't snarky, just playful. But, fuck it, I’m at war. 

The pair of socks are still extended towards me, but his hand lowers. He looks confused and, at the same time, on the verge of amusement. Then he licks his lips like he's nervous. 

“I'm not acting all nice, I just stopped trying to flirt with you.” 

My brain becomes an ice block too, and somehow I forget how to breathe. But then, all at once, everything seems to hit me at a million miles an hour. Flirting with me? Since fucking when? And  _ why?  _

“ _ What?”  _ Eloquent as fucking ever, I spit the word out like an accusation. 

He sighs and leans back against the sink, arms crossing over his chest and my socks— _ his  _ socks—still in his fist.

“You know, flirting? That. I stopped it.” 

“ _ With me? _ ”

He snorts, but he's smiling like he's fond. “Yes.  _ You _ .” 

“No.” I'm shaking my head. This is fucked. Has he been? He  _ can't  _ have? 

“I  _ was _ ,” he impresses. 

“No.” I'm in denial. How the fuck did I not see it. Did Emma see it? 

“ _ Yes _ ,” he says, laughing softly. 

I splutter. What the fuck am I supposed to say? “ _ Why didn't you tell me _ ?” I sound like I'm whining because I suppose I am. 

The laughter doubles. “Isak, that's not really how it's supposed to work.” 

“Well your method wasn't exactly successful, was it?” My voice is raised like he's committed the worst possible crime.  _ Fuck _ . But if he had just said something then… then what? It’s really not how it works. You don’t forewarn someone that you plan on flirting with them, do you?

“Have you ever flirted before?” 

“Of course I have.” I want to cross my arms like he is, defend myself but I still need both of my hands to grasp my towel. And, yes, I've flirted. Or pretended to. And then there's Grindr, but I guess you don't need to flirt; when someone talks to you, you know why. Maybe I haven't been flirted with in person. Now that I think of all the teasing, all the time he spent there, the preening, the intent he has on me when he's there… 

Ok maybe I missed a trick here. I'm such a dumbass. 

“Well, now you know.” He looks at me patiently, waiting for my reaction. 

I do. And now what am I supposed to do? Mr-Ridiculously-Attractive-Spielberg was flirting with  _ me?  _ What kind of response do I give? What does he expect?  

“Why did you stop?” I complain like a fucking child. But did he lose interest in me? Or was it just supposed to be a joke? Or— 

“Because you thought I was being condescending or belittling. I thought you were just prickly.” And there's that soft smile, like he  _ likes _ the fact I'm a grumpy shit. “But I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable. So, I stopped.” He shrugs. 

My mouth is open. I said I hated him. I'm not sure if there is anything more I could have done to fuck this up. I don't know what to say, but my mouth has other plans. 

“Well… can you… do it again?” 

He blinks. “ _ What?”  _

I’m grappling for words so that I sound more eloquent. “Do it more— _ again _ .” I fail.

“ _ You want me to flirt with you?”  _ he asks incredulously. 

Of course I do, does he think I'm stupid? Well, I wouldn’t blame him if he did, after all of this. “Yes—I mean, if you still  _ want _ to.” 

He looks stunned and he's motionless for a moment, simply considering me. That's when I realise I'm standing here, mostly naked, demanding his attention—attention he was giving freely until I told him I hated him. I feel vulnerable, the air is suddenly too warm and thick, and I can't get enough oxygen to my brain. What is he thinking? 

This was not how I imagined today would go. 

“No.” 

My chest doesn't want to expand anymore. My heart is pounding in my ears. Of course I would have fucked this up.  _ No? _ He's lost interest in me now. 

“No,” I murmur numbly. 

He's shaking his head, taking the second ear piece out before placing them carefully on the side of the sink along with the socks, and my heart drops into my stomach. “I don't want to flirt anymore.” 

I'm nodding like I understand but it feels like I just lost a winning lottery ticket. I didn’t just miss a trick, I skipped out on the whole damn show. My throat is tight. “OK,” I manage. “OK.” I have no other option than to accept that. 

I dare to look at him, try to be convincing that this isn't bothering me at all, but my breath catches when I meet his eyes. There's a curious mix of intensity and intrigue, it makes my blood lava: viscous and searing. 

I flinch when he pushes away from the sink, staring at him in a trance as he crosses the small room, making his way towards me. It's not like before, I  _ can't  _ look anywhere but him now. He's not walking away, so I’m confused because I thought he was gonna take a pass.

He pulls up short in front of me. He's not so much taller than me, it just felt like he was before. I still tilt my chin up—it feels like a brave move—and breath rushes from me as my lungs scream for air. But I won't slink away, I'll stand my ground. I can almost feel the few centimetres distance between my back and the tiles. A small part of me feels ire at knowing my back is to the wall if I try to give ground, but the rest of me  _ wants _ to be pushed hard against it—by him. 

This was a quick turn about. 

“I don't think our flirting styles are compatible,” he says. His tone is low and there are those vibrations again, they seem to move through me. They make me weak and I don't resent that anymore, I want to be malleable to his touch. 

I blink as his words register. “No, but—” I try to fight against his point but he just shakes his head once and the words die on my tongue. He smiles and all the vocabulary I held in my brain turns to letter soup. 

“We can skip that part.” 

My mouth is dry again. “ _ Skip it _ ?” 

He hums a  _ yes. _

“T—to what?” It's a stupid question but I can't help it. I need him to spell it out apparently. My fists begin to ache where they've been gripping the towel and I feel like I can't move one single muscle in case I fuck this up in some catastrophic way. 

He tilts his head, his features soften as his gaze dances over my face. And I think I just died.  

“I want you, Isak. Can I have you?” 

Word soup. My brain is word soup and I'm lost in his eyes, despite my own feeling heavy lidded. There's a low noise coming from my throat again that I think was a yes, yet still he's not snickering at me. He just looks intent, he looks as desperate as I feel. 

I'm fucked. 

So, to make it completely clear, I nod.  _ Have me? _ Yes, he can have me, anyway he goddamn wants. 

But before I can verbalize that, warmth lands on my cheeks, his hands are cradling my face and a high tide of relief floods me that I was unaware I'd been waiting to feel in weeks. 

He edges closer as his head dips, and I don't know how I'm still upright, I don't know how I've not sneezed, or done some stupid thing, to fuck up this moment. But it slows and ebbs and blurs and there is his breath, warm and clean, it mists my skin like I'm walking through the fog of a daydream. 

His nose touches mine, tips bumping like ships in the night that on this occasion managed to collide, then it slides along mine as he tilts his head to close the remaining distance, the hands on my face urging me to meet him but I need no persuasion. I feel my lips unsteady, trembling, like they know they are waiting for something much  _ much  _ more than just a kiss… 

Then the warmth bleeds into me. His mouth is on mine; soft yet firm, innocent yet promise lurking behind his teeth. There is one lingering press before a breath is drawn, and I suppose I must have inhaled too, but then he returns and this time it feels like he set down anchor. 

Fingers begin to make paths over my scalp as he combs through my hair, and that promise I knew was there makes itself known as his tongue slides past my lips. And I'm left counting down the millimetres until his chest meets mine. 

I want to touch him but I'm still frozen, gripping the towel like it's my final defence, except it's not needed anymore because a truce was met. But if I let go— 

He pulls back and my eyes are on his smiling mouth. Did I ever think they were too full? I really am an idiot. 

“Do we need the towel?” he asks. 

Instead of answer, my fingers release their grip, moving swiftly to him, his body. My arms are around him, pulling him hard against me, and I decide I should probably feel some form of shame, rather than eagerness, as the towel drops to my feet. He huffs a soft laugh before it's forgotten and his mouth is on me again, but this time there's more force behind it, and he backs me up until I'm pressed to the tiles. 

I've hooked up enough times to know what this is, but all those other times I've had time to think it through, imagine the different scenarios of how things will turn out, whether I'll top or bottom. It ends up being more mechanical than natural; a way to get off, depending on whatever mood I'm in. 

But this has been sprung on me.  _ This _ is new and it's a fucking mystery, because he's been the one aware and imagining. I'm more than happy to let him take this where he wants it. For whatever reason my need to be in control evaporated as soon as this situation became apparent. 

Part of me longs for this tender way his mouth envelops mine, the accurate force he uses to push his tongue into my willing mouth, the secure way his palms adjust to the lines and angles of my body; they just found my waist and linger there a moment before fingers sail the waves my ribs make. I don't know where his compass is pointing, I don't know what direction he's heading, and I never knew how much I needed to feel disorientated inside someone's palm and mouth before this moment. 

And then I want rough, I want harshness, I want him to demand of me, because I deserve the retribution, that and I want to feel him for as long as possible—long after I have to stumble home through the snow knowing this was probably a one off. I want to feel where his nails drew marks, and his teeth tasted, and his dick greedily made space within me. I need my body to throb with the afterimage of this lust, like I know my mind will. That way I know it happened, that it wasn’t just in my head. 

I want physical memories.

Its like he knows because both his hands splay over my ass before taking a firm grip of me, bordering on pain. My mouth breaks from him as I groan and his body pushes harder against me to drive another gasp from me. I'm hard, my cock trapped between our bodies and my hands are gripping to his shoulders, because if it wasn't for his body and the wall at my back, I'm sure I'd be a boneless mess on the floor.  

My hands trail down his back. His skin is smooth and my touch is more tentative, like this might all be a mistake that will be rectified any moment, and his warmth ripped from me. He's suffering from none of that hesitation, hands all but at home on me, reminding me that I'm stark bollock naked and caught under his touch—not that I mind. I just want an equal playing field.

His fingers drag around my hips, working over my hip bones and inching towards my groin. It's that action that stirs the soup, and letters align to give me a word just as my fingers tug at the waistband of his trousers. 

“Off,” I grunt into his mouth. 

He stands back, grinning down at me, his eyes take their time drinking me in as he unbuckles his belt. Then he unzips them and my chest is heaving. I've never wanted someone so bad and so insanely urgently.  

But he pauses, chewing his lip, fly undone to show the trail of light hair from his navel that continues under his low boxers. I can see the bulge his dick makes and I fucking need it. 

“Bed,” he says. No, he orders, and I'm mystified at the way I just fucking nod. But why the fuck would I put up a fight? 

He walks backwards, towards the door that leads to his suite, his gaze stays fixed to me and it draws me along, like I'm being towed by his intensity alone. I step over the discarded towel, white just like a truce flag, and it's only a few more steps until I'm through the door. 

Usually, I'd be more self aware, walking around naked and with a hard on with a complete stranger, but he doesn't seem to give a fuck so neither do I. I do dither in the room while he turns to grab something from a drawer near the bed: lube and condoms. 

This is fucking happening. 

Then his eyes are on me and he's eyebrowing me again. No one has ever looked at me the way he does, and now I know why I couldn't look at him before. He makes me feel like prey, and now I'm OK with that. More than fucking OK with it. 

That daydream fog is still thick and I seem to move slowly, but then suddenly I'm right there and his mouth is there, on mine. These kisses are delirious, I think maybe there's some drug on his tongue that makes me deaf, dumb, and stupid. But fuck it all, this is better than all those senses combined. 

He's moving me back and I go, my calves feel the soft of the mattress and the fall is slow motion, his hand at the small of my back guiding me. But he doesn't follow, not yet. His trousers are pushed over his hips, taking his boxers with them and I'm left to enjoy him just as hungrily as he was staring at me. 

As a general rule, dicks are useful, and that's about as much credit as I can give them. But for whatever reason, his cock has me biting my lip. It's not that it's made out of gold but I want it in me; palm, mouth, ass. I want to taste it, feel it, ride it, because it looks like it was made to be fucked. 

_ He  _ was made to be fucked. 

And if this is just a one time thing, then I'm gonna at least make sure he has trouble forgetting it. 

I inhale, it’s sharp and urgent because he's moving forward, he's  _ on  _ me, skin pressing to mine and I'm already groaning before his mouth mutes me. And the motion seems so easy, so natural, to arch beneath his weight, to widen my legs, to snake my arms around him… 

There's no space between us, there's barely any air, as we gasp between kisses and he moves over me. His dick is grinding against my stomach, sliding alongside my own hard on. I'm feeling him out with every inch of my body that I can manage. 

My head spins when he comes up for air, but he's quick to bite down my neck, teeth grazing along my skin, and then his tongue retraces the trail until he reaches my ear. 

“I've been thinking about this a long time,” he says. It's said quietly but it's so deep I can't help but moan. He has? What has he been thinking? I want to ask but my tongue doesn't want to do anything but lay dormant, incoherent noises passing over it. 

He rolls against me again and it's bliss. I'm pretty sure I could come just from this alone. 

“Getting you naked,” he purrs. My eyes are closed and I'm basking in his words, his skin, his mouth. “Fucking you… you fucking me…”  

It feels like the list is longer than that but his mouth becomes preoccupied sucking my skin, making marks over my shoulder, I realise my fingers are in his hair encouraging it. 

I've never liked love bites before. But it seems like there's probably a lot of exceptions that are going to happen.

He's been thinking about this a long time? We could have been doing this for days… 

“Just don't stop.” The words appear in the space before my mouth. I don't remember saying them, but it's all I can think. I don’t want this rush to stop, this desperate need that's filling every square millimeter that my body consists of. 

And he appreciates the sentiment because he’s groaning in my ear now, his hands sweeping up my sides and I begin to feel a sensation close to pain as I burn where I want his touch to move to. I need his hands on me, I need him to work my body, I need my mouth full of cotton as he fucks into me. 

Need curdles me, my muscles tightening in need, fingers lacing through his hair and gripping like he might disappear if I don’t hold on tight enough. His tongue is rough now, and his teeth pull at my lips because we are back to kissing and I don’t think I need anything other than these kisses for the rest of my life. Everything else would be a poor imitation of life. 

He pulls away, not far but enough so he can look at me and of course I’m looking at him; where else would my gaze be? 

“I have two questions?” 

I huff a breath. Questions? For what? “ _ What _ ?” And I don’t care that I sound impatient because I fucking am.

His lips pull up in a smile. “You don’t hate me?” 

I roll my eyes. “I did— _ no, _ I didn’t. I just had no clue what the fuck you were doing.” And I try to pull him back to my mouth, we can talk later. Or not. I don’t know what’s left after we do what is blatantly obvious we both want. 

But he resists. “That’s good. So, you like me?”

“ _ Yes,”  _ I say emphatically. My fingers tighten their grip to urge him on, but still he doesn’t move. “That was two questions.”

“Well, the second one was a follow up, so it doesn’t count.”

“Jesus Christ, what else?”

“I’m glad you like me,” he grins. What is he talking about. “I like you.” 

Like me? So, just enjoy me as a person, or something more than lust? That's kinda vague. It’s also not a goddamn question. “That’s not a question.”

“I know, I just wanted you to know.”

“Good,” I say, as genuinely as I can sound. I mean, I am pleased that he doesn’t think I’m a dick, or whatever. But my dick is hard right now, and so is his. And I’m not a goddamn saint. 

I tilt my chin, hoping that I can persuade him down to my lips again but his grin widens.

“There’s one more question.”

“Seriously? Get on with it.”

He licks his lips, and his gaze flickers to my lips. “Have you been fucked before?” 

I snort. Of course I have, maybe not entirely sober, but I’m no virgin. Like I said, no saint. “ _ Yes _ .”

“Cause I don’t mind taking my time, but I really just want to be inside you already.”

Usually that sentiment would be a turn off, like they only care about one thing. Which is usually true for me too, but you aren't obvious about it. This time, I don’t know… exceptions again, I guess,  _ that _ and all I wanna feel is the maddening burn when he pushes inside my body.

“I wouldn’t have guessed with all this fucking chit chat,” I say. My mouth has a mind of its own, but I think we’re both aware of that by now. He laughs, biting his lip. As much as he wants this, it seems he wants to savour it too. I get that. But I can’t stand the way he looks at me, cos it’s foreplay by itself, and I feel like he’s edging me without even trying. Which is far from fair. 

“Just fuck me already,” I moan, tilting my hips up and moving against his body, feeling his dick pulse in response, and the low groan forced from his throat. 

“God I love your mouth,” he says. 

I’d be thrown off by the statement if I had enough time to really digest it; he  _ loves  _ my mouth? But the only thing I’m ingesting is his mouth and tongue because we’re back to kissing and it’s a relief. I don’t think any one person has been more appealing to me, and, when he looks at me and speaks to me, while being naked and on top of me—well, it’s a little fucking overwhelming. 

His back curves so that there's space between our hips, then his hand is there. Not just grasping my cock, but his own too. His hand has us both firmly, working them both while they press together, and I was a fucking liar when I thought his hands were too big to be of any use because, holy fuck,  _ this _ . This is new and I can’t help but buck up into the motion. And he doesn't even take a breath from the kiss, just takes everything my mouth can give. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” I breath into his mouth.

But instead of a lengthy response, that I guess I’m used to by now, he’s moving down my neck, his teeth and tongue and lips taking it in turns to makes sure I feel him. His hand never stops its motion, twisting slowly, palming the heads, and I think I’m leaking onto him but I don't care. 

The kisses reach my chest and he has to shift away, his hand solely working my cock now, and now I know where he’s going and I let him, my fingers still full of his hair. I want to give him the most ridiculous fuck hair he’s ever had, or ever will have, because I need to make my mark on him. 

It doesn’t take long before his cheek is flush against my shaft as his path reaches the base of my dick. Then his tongue takes over, drawing a tortuous line up to the tip. I know his eyes are on me but I don’t dare to look down because I will nut all over myself in a fucking heartbeat. 

I feel his hand move down as his mouth takes me, his tongue circling the ridge slowly, teasingly. All I can do is gasp shallow breaths, feeling my heart beat wildly in my chest. But it's a deep groan that crawls out of my throat when he finally takes me fully inside his mouth, and I know I’m whimpering as I sink further into heat. And he’s making noises too, I can't hear then over the sounds I’m making, but I can feel them vibrating through me. 

And I’m so lost to the feel of him, the way he just seems so at home moving over me, the tip of his tongue as it drags against me, the firm hold he has of me—just the right pressure—that I missed the part where he’d magically lubed his fingers up with one goddamn hand. 

There was no warning before his fingers find me and I can't help but make a pathetic and desperate plea, and I don’t shy away from his touch. He’s not playing around either because, as soon as his fingers have acquainted themselves with my ass, they push inside me. Two, I’m sure it’s two, and they are firm and determined as they work into me. With his mouth on me, and his hand on my shaft, I don’t even care. 

I know I’m cursing, I can’t seem to close my mouth on the heady words that roll off my tongue, and my hands are gripping cotton now instead. I’m pretty sure he isn’t going anywhere, not right now, I don’t have to make sure he’s beneath my palms. Cos he has me, and he’s not letting go.

And I don’t give a fuck about how urgently he moves, how eagerly he adds another finger, because I know he wants this as bad as I do, and I’m high on that. I’m not sure I’ll ever come down. The ache blooms through, spreads through me, but it isn’t pain, it’s need.

I feel him move back, cock hitting my stomach heavily, but his hand is still fucking into me. I open my eyes and he’s watching me, that look on his face that says I’m going to be devoured, and I can’t wait to feel the first bite.

“Just fuck me,” I complain, head dropping back to the mattress. He looks like he’s going to tease, because the corners of his mouth twitch, but before he can say anything, I add just two words. “ _ Please _ , Even.”  

There’s a heartbeat of stillness between us, before he’s down on me like a tonne of bricks. His mouth on mine, I can taste him and me on his tongue, and the ownership being inside his mouth makes me as dizzy as these deep kisses. My arms are twinned around his neck, and my nails drag their way up his back before they find his hair again. 

I’m not sure how he’s doing it but his knees are on either side of my hips, and he doesn’t need his hands to balance. I feel the movement and I can hear the wrapper opening on a condom, and I wanna put it on for him, I wanna suck his dick first, but maybe we can do that later. I guess it depends whatever this fucking is. But he’s too quick, he doesn’t even need to look at what he’s doing because his tongue doesn’t leave my mouth. 

It does when he lines himself up, and it’s hazy when I gaze at him feeling the head of his cock push against me, rubbing over the crack of my ass.

“Say my fucking name again,” he says, his voice is harsh because his breathing is as laboured as mine. One of his hands is firm on my thigh, tilting my hips and he’s right where he needs to be, he just needs to fucking push against me… 

“ _ Even _ .” I don’t even fight his demands. 

“ _ Fuck _ .” His tone is guttural and I wish I had more time to just relish the way he cusses, but I don’t have time, because his finger tips are digging into my flesh, holding me firm, and his body pushes against mine.

I hold him just as fiercely, hands frenzied at grasping skin and hair, not knowing where the best place is to hold on. He edges on, shallow thrusts, but he’s unstoppable. My body gives way to him, and when his slow thrusts are easier, he comes down onto his elbows, hovering over my face. And I want his mouth but the only thing I can focus on is how he’s digging deeper into me. It feels like too much—almost. But I want him to turn me inside out, take all that he can.

Like he knows that, he thrusts firmly, abruptly, and then his body meets mine. All I can do is breath as my eyes are locked to his, all of his cock inside of my body. He rocks against me, moving as deep as he possibly can in this position, and my throat is starting to burn with the moans he’s pushing from me.

“Say it again,” he demands. 

I have to swallow, working moisture into my mouth. “Even,” I whimper. 

He pulls back, almost entirely from me, and then his body slams against mine. I'm breathless, the force of him shocking me out of the reactions that are waiting to burst free. I managed to fill my lungs before the next blow lands, harder now. That's when the staggered cry works its way through the wall of shock, and it doesn't stop ebbing from me because he does not relent in fucking me, harder and faster with ever fucking struggling breath. 

He's frowning, it's almost pain but I know it's cos this feels so damn good. I didn't know this was what I was waiting for, but now it seems so obvious. And he's been wanting this for… how long?

“I've been waiting,” the words roll out of him between breaths, between thrusts. “For you to say my name,” he grunts, biting his lip. “God, you're stubborn.” But he's grinning, or he would be if he wasn't so intent on driving into me. He likes that. 

I want to push the hair from his forehead; there's a damp strand stuck to his skin, but I can't do more than keep filling my lungs with oxygen and be fucked.  _ And _ make noises. But I can think, barely, and he likes it when I say his name.  _ I  _ like saying his name, it sounds right in my mouth. And I've put off using it simply on my stubborn principles. 

He's right about that. How does he know me?

My hands find their grip on him and I pull him to me, I need him closer, this time he comes. My hips tilt, I curve so he can keep fucking me just like this, but I need more of his flesh pressed to mine. I find my mouth on his neck, under his ear, and I can at least provoke while I'm taking the frustrated, pent up force that's punishing my body. 

“You feel so fucking good…  _ Even _ .” My voice is breathy and urgent, but he hears and it has the desired effect cos fingers bite a little harder into my flesh, and his body rolls against me firmly before he's fucking me again. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he breaks off as he nuzzles into my neck, tender kisses contrasting against the way our bodies are moving. 

The room is spinning, I feel like I’m fading but it doesn’t matter. His hands are creeping up my arms, pushing them above my head, and his fingers are lacing through mine. His palms are slick, like mine, but it feels good. They’re gliding over each other, just like our bodies. I start to tune out, there’s no strength in me except to make sure I’m angled just right, but my eyes are closed and I’m drifting.

This all just sprang itself on me, but as soon as I knew, I was hard. Turned on for this—for  _ him _ . And this is like something out of one of my fantasies; a quick, hard and unexpected fuck with someone so damn fucking hot. He knew what he wanted and that was me, and he has me, he’s taken me, and it’s never felt so good.

That ache is stronger, and I’m quiet now, there’s a peace that conflicts against the obscene noises made when his body meets mine, or the quick, rapid and heady breaths he makes. Everything has slowed for me and I know I’m so fucking close. I’m gonna come so fucking hard… 

“Baby, I need you to come. I’m gonna come,” he urges desperately. His voice is somewhere near my ear. And I would laugh cos, firstly, that’s not going to be a problem, and secondly, I’m glad he’s not gonna last much longer than me. I would laugh but I'm only capable of basic functioning right now. 

_ Baby? _ Fuck, that sounds good…

I want to say something, but all I do is whimper when I open my mouth. His pace speeds up and I don’t think I have a choice about this orgasm, he’s fucking it from me. And that’s never happened before, I ‘ve always needed my hand when I’m being topped.

Another exception.  

It was already sticky between our stomachs but he slams against me again, while his teeth sink into my neck, and it shatters everything. All I can feel are the muscles in my legs, wrapped around his waist, shake as I come, hot spurts gushing between us and now I am making noises again—wordless and utterly pathetic but they won’t stop. My throat hurts but I  _ can’t _ stop it. He keeps moving against me and every thrust pushes more from me, painting my skin in stripes. His body is jerking and his mouth is on my neck still, but he’s cussing into my skin—he came too. 

The motion becomes a lazy roll before we’re still and all I can hear is panting, both of us. The room is quiet and times passes—could be a minute or a fucking hour. All I'm aware of is the furious heartbeat that beats against my chest. The first thought that comes to me, when feeling returns to my body and the cloud I was drifting on dissipates, is to wonder at how thin the walls are? 

He moves first, flushed and looking as exhausted as I feel, but he props himself up on one elbow to look down at me. I bet I’m a mess too—fuck it, I know I am. I can feel sweat trickling down from the backs of my knees, and my cheeks are hot. There’s hair stuck to my forehead too. 

There’s a sharp flare of regret, and maybe even a desire of ownership, when he shifts between my legs and his dick slips out of me. I want him again already, and I have no idea what this was  _ supposed  _ to be. This might be it, just one hot fuck. I  _ should  _ be grateful about that. 

He’s grinning already, but it's sheepish. “I imagined that I would be slow and I’d have time to, you know, do much more than that. Sorry.” He laughs gently. Does he think that was a bad fucking performance? Shit… 

I grunt. “You talk shit,” I manage, but hold back from saying that was the best sex I’ve ever had. I don’t care if it was five minutes, or five hours. 

He’s shaking his head, but his smile doesn’t slip. “I kept you quiet for a while, so that’s something. Well, not  _ quiet _ , but you stopped giving me shit.” 

“You should be proud,” I say dryly.

But he just shrugs. “I don’t know, I kinda missed it.” His eyebrows raise, and— _ fuck _ —does he know how good looking he is? He has to. 

His free hand moves over my forehead, pushing the damp hair away like I wanted to earlier, and I freeze for a heartbeat before softening. This feels tender, almost domestic. I need to stop being comfortable. 

“I should text Emma,” I mutter. But I don’t move, he’s still mostly pressed to me and his body weight feels right. I should go before it gets harder. 

But he shakes his head. “I already did.”

I’m frowning up at him. “Why do you have her number?” Does he like her too? I knew she liked him, what an ass— 

“I had to figure out when you were working somehow,” he says as if it’s nothing. So, all the times he happened to come in when Emma was on her lunch, or had to go and get something from the shop, or… there have been a lot of occasions. Maybe I should feel a little pissed at it going on behind my back, but honestly? I’m just taken aback by the effort he’s put in.

Could you put this much effort in if you just wanted one fuck?

Didn’t he say he loved my mouth?

I lick my lips. I’m not really sure how to go about asking what his intentions are, he waits for me to respond but I hesitate too long. His fingers begin drawing lazy patterns down my neck.   

“Oh,” I say. It’s all that's making it passed the approval barrier in my mind, because the questions that are springing to mind are: Marry me? Like, yesterday? I am going to fall down a pathetic hole if I give my mouth any freedom at all.  

“Anyway, she’s fine. The shop is locked up, she just said you have some stuff to do in the morning when you open.”

Well, that would make sense. I didn’t do my closing duties, and she would usually do them but her foot is busted. She’s probably already cosy in her little flat, and I have a twenty minute trek through goddamn arctic conditions.

“I should probably shower,” I mumble. Technically, we both should, considering the sweat and come that’s all over us. But it’s more a hint, I guess, that I feel I should be leaving. Cos I’m beginning to freak out about this whole situation. Where did the socks go? All I wanted was the fucking socks… 

He glances down between us, like he’s completely forgotten. “I got you dirty again,” he says, amused with himself. Then his eyes are on me again. “I’m not sorry about that though.” 

I wanna make some quip about not being surprised that he’s unrepentant and allude to the fact he’s an asshole, I would have had no problem doing that all of thirty minutes ago. But I don’t wanna lie. He’s not. I like him.

I more than like him. 

I’m hesitating again, and starting to panic. My tongue feels thick. He’s frowning now because my nerves are apparent, so his fingers begin to stroke through my hair. It’s soothing. “You’re the hottest person I’ve ever met, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” He’s trying to reassure me. But all that comes are questions. That and shock.  _ The hottest person he’s ever met? _

“Thinking about this? Just fuck me?” 

He studies my face before answering. “More than this.”

“But you just asked if you could  _ have  _ me. That could mean just once. What if  _ I _ only wanted once?” The words blurt out of me, half insecure, half defensive, incase he does just want a one time thing. 

He sighs, but his face is soft, in that fond way he looks at me. “Well then I asked the wrong question.”

I blink, scared to ask, but my lips move anyway. “What’s the right question?”

Pausing, he shifts over me, one elbow one other side of my face then he moves towards me, his lips meeting mine lightly. He kisses me slow and deliberately, and my arms are around his back before I can control them, clinging on to him. 

Inching back, his nose pushes against mine. “Can I keep you?” It’s asked softly, secretly, like a pact. And I feel like I’m fading again. 

It’s too late for me to stop from nodding, or to stop that low noise in my throat from happening—again. I think it was supposed to be a resounding  _ yes.  _ My brain catches up, and now I’m smirking. Yes, he can keep me, but I’m not gonna admit it so freely. I clear my throat. “I feel like we’re going to need some specifics of what you mean by  _ keep;  _ I’m not a pet.” 

And he’s laughing, and I am too. This feels so good. My fingers are making slow trails up his back. 

“Why don’t we start with tonight? Stay with me? Please…” 

I bite my lip and nod. I wanna make some smart ass comment about there being no better place to go right now, considering the snow only seems to be getting heavier. But I feel the urge to be as honest as he’s being with me. 

“I don’t wanna go,” I reply quietly, “ _ anywhere _ else.”

His smile is wider, and I didn’t think that was possible. My fingers comb through  _ his  _ hair now, it’s soft and I remember there is a tub in the bathroom—big enough for two. I can imagine his hands lathering suds over me, and me foaming his hair with shampoo…  

… the way he’s looking at me is like he can read my mind. “Good.” And he means that it’s better than good—much,  _ much,  _ better. I just know. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Lemme know what you think <3

**Author's Note:**

> ... i don't know where this is headed *sarcasm*


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